


Teal Brocade

by Kainosite



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th c.
Genre: Angst, Bad Practice in Government, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, New Labour, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-21
Updated: 2011-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:23:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kainosite/pseuds/Kainosite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's annoyed Gordon again, but Tony knows just how to sort it out.  And, y'know, if he has to put up with their crap, they might as well put on a show for him.  Maybe he'll invite Alastair along too.  Look, he's just an animal following his instincts. Warnings for non-con and voyeurism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to [this prompt](http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/8078.html?thread=15994766#t15994766) at the Lolitics meme.

" _That_ went well."

They ought to be getting on with their day, but instead they're all sitting around the conference table in a state of shell shock. Well, Tony is. His advisers seem to be coping. Jon delicately smooths out the piece of paper that Gordon crumpled up and threw at Tony's head, his countenance still and serene as a mountain pool, to all appearances imperturbable. Alastair is troubled enough to supply sarcastic commentary, but from the way he folds his arms across his chest and gives Tony a contemptuous glare like it's somehow _his_ fault that Peter threw a hissy fit and flounced out of the meeting and then Mount Gordon erupted, shell shock may not be the best characterization of his mood.

It figures. If anyone else found these rows as disagreeable and distressing as Tony does, they wouldn't _have_ them all the time. Sometimes he suspects Peter positively _enjoys_ them. But they all know how miserable their quarreling makes Tony, and if they can't make the effort to be nicer to each other, they could at least have the decency to look sympathetic instead of accusatory afterward when they've left him to clean up the mess.

"I don't know why I bother, sometimes," he says plaintively, hoping Alastair will stop glaring and come comfort him if he sounds bereaved enough.

Ali looks slightly mollified, but he has no words of comfort to offer. "You're going to have to read Peter the riot act, Tony. He can't speak to Gordon like that, and he knows it, or he ought to. God knows we've told him enough times."

Tony sinks back in his chair, resisting a brief urge to slide down all the way under the table and hide there. "I don't want to have another fight with him. Can't you do it?"

"It has to be you, Tony. He won't listen to Alastair." Jon's expression darkens slightly, a cloud passing over the still water. "It's better than even odds he won't listen to _you_."

Ali gives Jon a quelling look. "He will if you're severe with him. He knows he's in the wrong."

"Except he's going to say it's Gordon's fault," Tony points out reasonably. "Which it was, sort of."

"Gordon had a go at Peter because Peter spent the first twenty minutes sniping at him. This is Peter's thing. He always does this; he deliberately provokes people knowing he'll get a massive overreaction and then he comes running back to us crying about how everyone is so cruel to him so we'll feel sorry for him and pet him and tell him how wonderful he is."

It's certainly true that Peter likes to play the martyr, but blaming him for the great Brown/Mandelson rift is a bit much. Peter would make it up with Gordon if Gordon would give him half a chance, but Gordon will never forgive him for liking Tony better. Which is really quite unfair of him, because apart from speccy little economics anoraks like Ed Balls, who _wouldn't_ like Tony better? It's not Peter's fault Gordon has a personality disorder. Ali sees Tony's skepticism and gropes for a metaphor.

"You're a younger sibling, yeah? It's that thing where you poke and poke your brothers when your parents aren't looking and then when they finally lose their temper and sock you one, you go running to Mum and Dad in tears and say ‘Mum, Mum, Graeme hit me!’ and you get a biscuit and they get a smack. Only most of us stopped doing it around age eight, but he's supposed to be a fucking Cabinet minister and he never grew out of it. It's manipulative bullshit. Don't let him get away with it."

"I'm not letting him get away with anything! I just think you're being unfair. It's as much Gordon's fault as his."

Alastair frowns. "I'm being pragmatic. We can't do anything about Gordon, but you can control Peter."

"Maybe," Jon mutters. Tony knows it's his frustration with Peter talking, not a lack of confidence in Tony, but the slur on his leadership abilities still hurts.

"Of course I can!"

"So give him a good bollocking and send him over to apologize. I don't know what you're so anxious about; you know he secretly loves it when you're stern with him. Besides," Ali leers, "I'm sure he can be persuaded to make it up to you."

Jon shoots him a distasteful glare. "I wouldn't know about _that_ , but you've got to do something, Tony. This can't go on. It will mean less trouble in the long run, if you put a stop to it now."

That's true enough, and Ali does raise a compelling point. Not that Tony has time for such distractions at the moment, but something could probably be arranged for this evening.

"Oh, all right," he says, and tells Anji to set up a meeting with his errant minister.

* * *

Tony has always felt there's no point in half measures. It's no use for Peter to give Gordon an apology that Gordon won't accept, and Gordon holds words from their camp pretty cheap these days. Besides, Gordon won't have much interest in a demonstration that _Tony_ can control Peter. Jon and Ali want one, maybe even Peter wants one, but Gordon doesn't like to be reminded of Tony's authority. Taking Peter by the ear like a naughty schoolboy and marching him over to the Treasury to apologize might sort out Peter, but it won't mollify Gordon.

Gordon will want a demonstration that _Gordon_ can control Peter. Two years ago Tony would have seconded him to Gordon's team for a few days: a nice little coup for Gordon, who got to play petty tyrant and run Peter ragged with his impossible demands, and a sharp punishment for Peter, who'd come crawling back duly chastened and grateful for the privilege of serving Tony instead of the nutter next door. But relations are so bad now that Gordon will refuse to take him. He'll probably accuse Tony of espionage if he suggests it.

They need something faster and cleaner, an unambiguous demonstration of Peter's submission that won't blur the lines between the two camps. Which narrows it down to a beating or sex, really. Tony's not entirely adverse to the idea of Gordon taking Peter over his knee and giving him a quick lesson in manners; it's an appealing image, and Peter certainly has it coming. But letting Gordon hit one of Tony's people could set a dangerous precedent. Besides, Gordon's so unhinged these days that he might not know when to stop, and if Tony has to step in to call a halt to the punishment it will negate the entire point of the exercise.

Sex it is, then. Tony's confident that Gordon won't really damage Peter when he fucks him- it's punishment enough that Peter doesn't want it; there's no need to get rough, or any rougher than Gordon normally is, anyway. They probably don't even need supervision. A good thing, come to think of it, because Gordon is unlikely to tolerate Tony's presence.

Although Peter will react better if he knows Tony's around to keep an eye on things. Cutting Peter loose even for an evening can get dangerous. It's important that he knows his place, that he understands that he's expendable and he can't act like he did today without consequences, but he's got abandonment issues and sometimes he goes a bit mental if he feels like Tony's ditching him. Tony needs him to behave himself and take what's coming to him, but if he gets too anxious he'll lash out, and the whole point is to smooth things over, not to drive Peter into instigating another skirmish. Perhaps he'd better stick around after all.

Besides, if Tony has to put up with their crap, they might as well put on a show for him. Maybe he'll invite Ali along too.

Gordon's got to think they're alone or he won't agree to it, and Peter's got to know Tony's watching. This eliminates the Treasury, since Tony can't very well sneak in, and to be honest he'd be a little reluctant to send Peter into the enemy camp even without the risk that Peter will feel deserted in his time of need and go all stabby. Gordon is one thing. Peter was their lieutenant for years before all this ugliness started; he's like family, to Gordon as much as to Tony. It's perfectly reasonable that Gordon should fuck him. Allowing him to get gang-raped by Gordon's band of heavies is another thing entirely, and much as it pains Tony to admit it, he can't be sure that Gordon wouldn't let it happen. That's how bad things have become.

No, they'll have to have the meeting on neutral ground, which practically speaking means Number 10 after hours, when Gordon's possession of the upstairs flat turns the first floor into a temporary demilitarized zone. The drawing rooms interconnect with big double doors that can be cracked open to let a bit of light through without anyone noticing. It shouldn't be too difficult to find a discreet vantage point from which to view the show.

* * *

He rings Gordon first, because there's no point in dragging an agreement out of Peter if Gordon refuses to cooperate.

"Peter was out of order this morning," he says.

 _"You noticed,"_ says Gordon darkly. Not the most promising beginning, but that's Gordon for you.

"He wants to apologize."

 _"Does he."_

"Look, we're not going to have one of these conversations where you repeat everything I say as a sarcastic question, are we? Because that's really not constructive. Peter was out of line, and he recognizes it- with some encouragement from _me_ , I might add- and he would like to apologize. _Properly_." He can't go into details, because the Downing Street switchboard tapes every call, but Gordon will know what he means.

 _"Properly, eh."_

Oh God, it _is_ going to be one of those conversations.

"He's really very sorry and he wants to make it up to you."

 _"Hmph."_

Tony gives the phone an exasperated glare. "C'mon, Gordon, work with me a little here. I'm trying to mend some fences, but I can't do it all on my own."

 _"I want a complete and unreserved apology,"_ Gordon says forebodingly.

"You'll have it, I promise."

Gordon sighs on the other end of the line. _"Send him over, then."_

"He can't come now; he's got work to do. So do you, I should hope. Why don't you two meet up this evening? He can stop by the flat."

 _"I'll not have that little snake in my home,"_ Gordon rumbles, as Tony knew he would. He grins to himself in triumph.

"Downstairs, then? How about the Terracotta Room, 11:00?"

 _"11:15,"_ snaps Gordon, unwilling to let Tony have things all his own way, and slams the phone down on the cradle. One down, one to go.

* * *

Peter shows up for his meeting looking sulky, which is a promising beginning, because it means they can skip the usual ten minute prelude in which Peter pretends not to understand why he's in trouble. If he already feels guilty enough to drop his mask of chipper amiability, getting him to agree to this should be a piece of cake.

"You can't speak to Gordon like that in a public meeting," Tony says sternly, and Peter scowls at him.

"He started it."

"You provoked him."

"I was teasing!" Peter protests disingenuously.

Tony gives him an arch look. "There's a reason bear baiting's been illegal since the 1800s."

"Very witty."

"You provoked him. Even if he did respond with his usual grace, it doesn't excuse what you said afterward. He's the Chancellor, Peter. He deserves your respect, for his record and his office if not for his collegial behavior," Tony says, giving Peter his steeliest stare.

"I'm not the one who just compared him to a blood-crazed animal!"

"And when you're the Prime Minister you can make jokes about your Chancellor, in private, to your friends. Until then you will remember your manners. You owe Gordon an apology."

Peter lifts his chin stubbornly. "He owes _us_ an apology! He had no right to say what he did about our media operation, or about Alastair, I might add. It's not just me he's picking fights with."

"No, but you're deliberately fanning the flames, and I won't have it. You're going to apologize to him. A _proper_ apology."

Peter flinches; he knows what that means too.

"I thought we were against unilateral disarmament."

"What we are _for_ is good practice in government. Which means détente between Number 10 and the Treasury. And right now that means you apologizing, with reparations. Look, you want to help me, don't you?"

Peter eyes him suspiciously, as if he's not sure this question is fair play. "Of course I do, Tony."

"Well, this is the single most useful thing you can do for me right now. Go to Gordon and use that clever tongue of yours to fix what you broke."

Peter flinches again. His face is pale, and his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. It's as much anger as fear, Tony suspects. Peter hates to admit when he's in the wrong, especially to Gordon- hates for his tantrums to have any consequences at all. After every shouting match or flood of tears he puts on a cheerful smile and tries to pretend that the Government's bonhomie was never disturbed. Peter would like to live in one of those children's programs where the characters' relationships all reset to baseline at the end of every episode regardless of the momentous events of the preceding half hour.

For his part Tony wouldn't mind living in Peter's cartoon world; it simplifies life immensely when people don't hold grudges. He makes a point to forgive and forget himself; it's the Christian thing to do, and he doesn't want to waste energy on hating people. What good does that do anyone? But Gordon remembers every slight and sets it proudly on his shelf of grievances, returning from time to time to admire it and burnish it with outrage until it gleams. It's not enough with Gordon just to turn over a new leaf; he takes that as a personal affront. Gordon has to be appeased with blood sacrifices.

Peter knows this perfectly well, but he just can't seem to stop himself from offending Gordon, and it takes Tony's firm guidance before he'll do as he ought to and atone for his insolence before it damages the Government. Tony does feel a bit sorry for him, standing there and trembling with rage and anxiety, but the important thing is that the Government run smoothly, or as smoothly as it ever can with Gordon in it. That has to be the paramount concern.

It's Tony's job as leader to remind everyone of this, to refocus their attention on the bigger picture when they become distracted by their little personality conflicts, and yes, at times to force them to do things they may not want to do in the public interest. They all have to make sacrifices for the greater good, and it's up to Tony to determine what is necessary. Peter is always grateful for his decisive leadership afterwards, however unhappy he may feel about his orders at the time. He always makes a point of telling Tony so after the incident is over. Alastair's right; on some level he likes it when Tony is stern with him.

And he won't beg. If he would just say, "I don't want to do it, Tony, please don't make me," Tony would let him off. If he was adamant enough, anyway; if he cried or something. But Peter is too proud, or maybe he's worried Tony won't like him anymore if he whines too much about his orders, which has a certain grain of truth to it because really, what's the point of Peter if he won’t do as he’s told? Or maybe he's just holding his tears in reserve for a time when he really needs them, a time when Tony asks something of him that he truly cannot bear.

At any rate, Peter won't beg, so what he says instead is "I won't go to the Treasury. I'll apologize to Gordon, but I won't crawl before Whelan and Balls to do it."

"Oh, all right," says Tony, like he's making a concession. "We'll do it here, then. You can do it in the Terracotta Room once everyone's gone home; that should be upscale enough for you."

Peter does not look much heartened by the prospect of teal brocade. His hands unclench so he can wring them together.

"It's just a blowjob? He's not going to- to hurt me, is he?" he asks, his lips drawing into a thin, unhappy line.

"Don't be silly. Would I let him do that?"

Peter drops his gaze. "No, I suppose not."

"Come here," says Tony, smiling kindly, and Peter does, a little hesitating. Tony stands up and reaches out to brush his fringe back from his eyes.

"I'll stick around to keep an eye on things, all right?"

"To make sure I go through with it?" Peter asks bitterly.

"No!" Tony lays his hands on Peter's shoulders and gives him a gentle squeeze. "I already know you'll do it, because I asked you to. But I'd like to watch you. You can be so good for me, Peter, and I want to see it. I want to see your courage and your obedience, I want to see you doing what I've asked of you even though it's hard. You'll give me that, won't you?"

"Yes, Tony," Peter whispers, and Tony leans in to claim a kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

Alastair's watching the tail end of _Newsnight_ \- final score Paxman - 5, Blunkett - 2, which has not filled Alastair's heart with love for the Secretary of State for Education and Employment but could be a good deal worse, considering- when Tony bounds into his office.

"I have a treat for you," Tony says, giving him an ominously avid grin.

Alastair eyes him warily. Tony's treats are never things like, "Please help me eat this delicious cake the French Ambassador has sent me with seven kinds of chocolate and a raspberry glaze." They're usually more along the lines of "You have a wonderful opportunity to write me an interesting but completely non-controversial speech about the Israel-Palestine conflict, which I need to give in three hours," or "You're coming with me to see a concert by a shit band on a day you thought you would be attending Rory's birthday party."

"I need to finish this," he says, hastily shuffling some papers to cover 'this', which is a stick drawing of Paxo being eaten by Labour dinosaurs. Tony Benn is a sauropod and Roy Hattersley is a Tyrannosaurus. It's a pretty good likeness given Alastair's art skills, although he has to admit Benn would be difficult to recognize without the pipe.

"Oh, c'mon," says Tony, beaming and cocking his head in a way he thinks is endearing.

It _is_ endearing, when Gracie does it. It's sometimes endearing in Tony but not when he's about to saddle Alastair with more work. It's 11:20, for fuck's sake, and he left home at 6:30 this morning. He hasn't seen his children for two days. Sometimes it seems like Tony and the neuroses-filled, media-besieged corridors of Number 10 are the only things that are real, and he has to look at the portrait on his desk and the kids' pictures on the walls to remind himself his family isn't a dream.

"It's just upstairs. It won't take long," Tony says, lowering his eyes coquettishly. Oh. _That_ kind of treat. Alastair sighs, but he can't go home until he finishes the press releases to repair all the damage Blunkett did on _Newsnight_ , which will take at least another hour, and he really could use the break. This job has very few perks, but Tony's mouth is one of them. He fishes the lube and a condom and a packet of tissues out of his desk drawer and lets Tony tug him up the stairs.

* * *

Alastair is Old Labour enough that fucking the Prime Minister on the posh, brocaded furniture of the Number 10 state rooms makes him feel a bit smug. Plus there's the illicit thrill of knowing Gordon lives in the flat upstairs, and might on some bizarre whim decide to wander around the darkened floor below and stumble across them. It's not likely to do anything positive for their working relationship- Gordon's not fucking Tony anymore, but that won't stop him from throwing a jealous tantrum if he learns that anyone else is- but the look Alastair imagines on his face when he discovers them is so fucking funny that he can't bring himself to care.

Still, they try to maintain their secrecy, creeping about on tiptoe and leaving the lights off. They slip into the darkened Pillared Room, dodging carefully around the screen and avoiding the tables with the ease of seasoned nocturnal visitors. It's not until Alastair hears voices and Tony swiftly presses a finger to his lips that he realizes that today there is a specific purpose to their precautions. They steal to the closed entry to the Terracotta Room, where a crack of light shines through the double doors. Through the gap Alastair sees Gordon and Peter standing in front of the sofas, their poses confrontational. Gordon stands like a small mountain, sloping but immovable. Peter as usual is hunched and defensive.

Alastair grabs Tony's arm and makes a face that he hopes conveys his current sentiments of ‘What the fuck?’ even in the dim light. Tony grins- Alastair can see _that_ ; what little light there is gleams off his teeth- and whispers, "Peter's punishment. I thought you might like to watch." He reaches for Alastair's belt and begins very carefully and quietly to unfasten it, holding the buckle so it doesn't clink.

This is fucked up even for them, and Alastair would say so, but he's never quite figured out how to whisper without moving his throat. Tony and Peter and Fiona can all do this thing where you can hear what they're saying but it's completely unvoiced, a tiny gust of air that doesn't carry to anyone but the speaker. When Alastair whispers it's quieter than normal talking, but he still ends up voicing most of the vowels. He can't seem to stop himself. He's not entirely sure why they're lurking in the dark undressing each other and watching Gordon yell at Peter through a tiny gap in the double doors, but he _is_ sure that alerting Gordon to their presence will not improve the situation. So he reluctantly holds his peace as Tony unzips his fly.

"- undermining me," Gordon is saying. "You're destabilizing the entire Government with your self-indulgent bullshit!"

That's true enough, although it could apply equally well to Gordon and Tony. Peter glares up at Gordon sulkily from under his fringe. How Peter manages to do this has always been something of a mystery to Alastair, because if you stick them back to back he’s actually slightly taller than Gordon. But Alastair's seen him look up at Neil too, and Neil's a whole eight inches shorter than him. Peter has many amazing talents. The problem is that about half the time he uses them for evil.

"I _said_ I was sorry for how I spoke to you in the meeting," he says. "But I won't apologize for the substance of the argument. You have no right to rubbish everything we're doing, keep your own agenda secret, and then spring it on us two weeks before the budget comes out and expect us to spin it for you!"

For a second Gordon's brows knit in a dark scowl, but then a sort of stony indifference smooths out his features. "I didn't come here to rehash this with you. Tony's given you your orders; I assume you still listen to _him_."

"Of course, but-" Gordon cuts off Peter's protest by the simple expedient of placing a meaty hand on each shoulder and shoving him to his knees. Peter yelps as his kneecaps hit the thin carpet, his face contorting in pain for a second before he can restore the mask of sullen contempt. Tony's hand slips into Alastair's boxers and closes around his cock.

He's probably supposed to be wanking Tony off, Alastair concludes reluctantly, and turns away as Peter reaches for Gordon's belt to do the same thing for Tony. It's a little tricky in the dim light- not that he can't unbuckle a belt by feel; he's not an idiot, but he has to hold the tongue of the buckle as he frees it so it won't clink against the frame. He manages to get it unbuckled without giving them away, carefully unthreading it from Tony's trousers and setting it down on a nearby chair. Slowly, slowly and silently he pulls down Tony's zipper and frees him from his boxers- one advantage of doing this in near darkness is that he doesn't have to find out what gaudy atrocity Tony has decided to inflict upon his loving wife and spin doctor today- and cups the Prime Minister's prick in his hand.

Tony's half hard already. Anticipation, or maybe he gets off on watching Gordon and Peter argue. It would explain why he never does anything to fucking _stop_ them. Alastair reaches into his pocket for the lube and drizzles a bit on his hand, then passes the tube to Tony, who grins again. His hand disappears from Alastair's cock for a moment and comes back warm and slick.

Alastair can't say his cock is particularly interested. This whole thing is just too furtive and weird. Then again, he's probably stuck here until they both get off, so he'd better try to get himself in the mood. He peers through the crack again, hoping for inspiration, and finds a attractive tableau- Peter's hands clenched on Gordon's thighs for balance, his dark head bobbing along the thick length of Gordon's cock, which is swelling to hardness under his practiced ministrations. God, Gordon is _huge_. He's got a fucking cucumber down there; why the fuck is he so fucking insecure all the time?

Peter is fairly deft at this- Alastair knows from experience- and between the memory and the movement of Tony's hand, things start stirring downstairs. He rubs his slick fingers lightly along the length of Tony's cock. Tony likes things soft and slow at first, so he can devote most of his attention to Gordon and Peter. He has to admit they make a pretty picture together: black hair, pale skin, Gordon's solid bulk and Peter's slender, graceful lines. They're perfect complements. He and Tony must look a bit like that when Tony's on his knees, although Tony can't match Peter's schoolboy prettiness, those delicate ageless features.

Gordon's hand tangles in Peter's hair and he pushes his head down, forcing Peter to take him deeper. Peter gurgles but cooperates, taking Gordon into his throat, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks. Alastair watches with a certain degree of satisfaction. Peter really was awful this morning, and it's good to see him swallow his pride for once and make some small effort to restore some fucking harmony to this government.

Tony seems to be equally appreciative; at least, he's getting more enthusiastic about the handjob. He gives Alastair's cock a firm stroke and Alastair reciprocates, grasping Tony's prick tighter and running his thumb over the head. He hears the hiss of Tony's indrawn breath and grins to himself. Tony's usually annoyingly demonstrative; keeping silent like this must be taking every ounce of his control. Alastair is going to push that control to the limit.

He's actually starting to enjoy himself- the porn show _is_ rather nice, and he's just discovered the upside to the weird secrecy- when Gordon abruptly destroys the moment by yanking Peter off his cock by the scalp and throwing him to the floor. Trust Gordon to ruin anything, but Alastair is still a little baffled. He can't understand what Peter did wrong. He was watching closely enough that he would have seen if Peter tried to bite, and he couldn't have; he had Gordon's prick halfway down his throat when Gordon pulled him off.

From the look of hurt confusion on Peter's face, he doesn't understand either. He lies there on his elbow, his mouth still a wet 'O.'

"Get up," Gordon says, and Peter shakes his head, his brows drawn into a nervous line.

"I didn't agree to this."

"Too bad. Get up."

"Gordon, I-" but he's hesitated too long. Gordon stomps over, seizes him by his tangled fringe, and hauls him to his feet. Peter cries out, but he has no choice but to comply, his hand clutching spider-like around Gordon's as he tries to ease the tight grip. Gordon drags him around the sofa and throws him across it, kicking the coffee table out of the way, and Peter tumbles down onto the seat, barely managing to put an arm out and grab the back in time to save himself from smashing his face into it as he falls. Gordon grabs him by the hair again and wrenches him straight, pulling his hips up so that he's kneeling on the cushions, his arse in the air.

The sofa is nearly perpendicular to them, with Gordon and Peter facing them across the back. They have a perfect view of Peter's pale, unhappy face.

"Gordon, don't-" he begins, but Gordon cuts him off by thumping his chin down onto the sofa so hard his teeth click.

"Shut up. Little whore. We both know what you're really after when you goad me."

Peter's lips quirk in an expression that bears only a vague resemblance to a smile. "Then aren't you worried this will encourage me?"

Gordon wrenches his head back. "It won't encourage you when I belt your worthless, conniving arse until you bleed, and maybe you didn't agree to that either but I doubt even your precious Tony will give a damn. What do you say, Peter, want me to inject a wee bit of sincerity into this so-called apology?"

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, and they can see the movement in his exposed throat as he swallows. "Please don't," he whispers.

"Then keep your legs open and your mouth closed," Gordon snaps, releasing his hair but giving him a clip across the ear to make the point. Peter hangs his head, looking utterly dejected. They can't see what Gordon is doing from their angle, but they can hear the thump as he drops Peter's shoes to the floor and the rustle as he pulls Peter's trousers down. Peter shivers as Gordon bares his arse and bites his lip, squeezing his eyes shut again as if he could make Gordon vanish by shutting out the sight of the room.

Then he brightens a little. He lifts his head and turns slightly to the left so that he's looking straight at them, and suddenly Alastair knows with absolute certainty that he knows they're watching. Peter doesn't say a word, but his eyes are imploring, and Alastair glances at Tony, unsure of what to do. Peter said he didn't agree to this part. If Gordon is going off the script, shouldn't they step in? But Tony just shakes his head and tightens his fingers around Alastair's cock. With an uneasy mix of trepidation and lust churning in his stomach, Alastair turns back to the scene before them.

Gordon's hand reappears briefly from behind the sofa as he slips two thick fingers into his mouth. He sucks them for a moment and then sticks them into Peter. Peter makes a strangled cry and his knuckles whiten on the edge of the sofa, his face crumpling with pain, and Alastair winces. It doesn't seem fair that they should have the lube when he has nothing. But Tony's hand is moving faster on his cock now, and it's all he can do to hold back a moan. Gordon opens Peter for a bit, holding his shoulder to keep him from squirming, wringing little cries of pain from him at the rough preparation.

Then Gordon shifts to stand squarely behind Peter, grabbing his hips, and Peter chokes back a scream as that massive cock forces its way into his body. Gordon sets a brutal pace right from the outset, not giving Peter a moment to adjust. He drives into him with merciless strokes that rock Peter forward and slide the sofa across the carpet, and Peter yelps and holds on for dear life. Tony's hand slows down to match the pace of Gordon's thrusts, _up_ as he thrusts forward, _down_ as he pulls back, hard and slick and sure on Alastair's cock, and Alastair realizes he's doing it too, synchronizing the movements of his own hand to Gordon's tempo. It's like Gordon is fucking all of them. Maybe that's what Tony wanted all along.

Unquestionably, Peter is having the worst of it. Alastair wishes it bothered him more. He knows he shouldn't be getting off on his friend's- his mind shies away from the word 'rape' and settles on 'discomfort'- but Tony's hand is on his cock, a constant encouragement, and there's something so fucking _satisfying_ about the way Gordon's muscled bulk slams into that lithe body again and again while Peter winces and whimpers and clutches the back of the sofa like it's a life preserver in a a frozen sea. Alastair's had Peter, but always playful and pleasant, never like this, and God help him, he _wants_ to. He wants to pin him down and fuck the arrogance and the insolence right out of him, and he's never going to get the chance but seeing Gordon do it is almost as good.

They're almost there, both of them- Alastair can feel Tony's prick twitching in his hand, and his own arousal is gathering in a hot white knot at the base of his spine. Tony comes first, with a shudder and a soft cry that makes Alastair's breath catch in his throat, but Gordon doesn't hear it over the noise Peter is making. Gordon is still pounding into him, and by now Peter's whimpers have quieted into a soft, constant sobbing.

It's not his angry crying, which they've all heard a lot, or his 'I'm terribly ill-treated and you should feel sorry for me' crying, which they've heard a lot of as well. This is more subdued, a sort of muted sniveling like he can't help himself but he'd rather Gordon didn't notice. It's disconcerting; in Alastair's experience, Peter always wants you to notice when he's upset. But if it's bothering him so much why doesn't he ask them for help? Why didn't he ask them for help back when Gordon started undressing him? He definitely knows they're there; every so often he'll glance over at them and quickly look away again as if he's ashamed they're watching.

Gordon's strokes speed up as he nears his own climax, and Tony's hand speeds up correspondingly on Alastair's cock. It's enough to send him over the edge, and for a moment his vision is an explosion of white fireworks and the zigzag of yellow light from the door like a crack in the universe, slicing through the darkness. When the spots fade from his eyes and the crack is once again a vertical line, he finds Gordon grasping Peter tightly to him as he empties himself into that slim body with a few fierce thrusts. Gordon slumps against him for a moment and then pulls out with an audible pop.

It seems as good a time as any to clean up, so Alastair fishes the tissues out of his pocket and starts wiping himself off and scrubbing Tony's spunk off his hand. There's no good place to put the soiled tissues, so he drops them to the floor as he finishes with them. When he's reasonably dry he checks on Gordon and Peter again. Peter is still weeping quietly, slumped over the back of the sofa while Gordon makes a perfunctory inspection of his arse. After a moment he slaps it and shakes his head.

"Stop your crying, Peter. You're not hurt."

"Not hurt-" Peter whirls on him. "I told you not to!"

"I took what was promised me." As Gordon zips up his trousers, something dawns on him, and he fixes Peter with a cruel, gloating smile. Gordon's heavy face is not attractive in the best of times, but with a forced grin he looks like a gargoyle. "Oh, Peter, don't tell me Tony was less than completely honest with you. Not _Tony_."

"It wasn't Tony who fucked me. You still had a choice," Peter hisses.

"Yes, but the difference is, I hate you. If that is a difference."

Leaving Peter to mull on that, Gordon shrugs his shoulders to settle his jacket and tramps off up the stairs. Peter swipes his wrist across his eyes and stands up. He turns sideways, giving them a view of his full cock, and reaches down to pick something off the ground. When he straightens up he is holding a handkerchief, into which he wanks mechanically, careful as always of the furniture. His face is blank beneath the sheen of tears on his cheeks.

Alastair knows they should go, but he's transfixed, bound somehow to bear witness to this scene to its completion. Beside him Tony stands frozen, making no move to dress, his face unreadable in the dark. At last Peter comes with a short intake of breath and no apparent pleasure, and Alastair feels some of the tension leave his body as if it were his own release, the spell broken.

He turns away from the crack of light to kneel down and begin fumbling around for the tissues he used to wipe his hand. It wouldn't do to leave them for the cleaners. He hasn't moved more than a foot since he dropped the bloody things, but they're not in the place they should have fallen, and he's been staring into a bright room for so long that he is blinded in the dark. He's just started to wonder whether Peter has gone and they can risk turning on the light when the double doors fly open, revealing the crumpled tissues not six inches from his groping hand. He wads them up inside the driest looking specimen, shoves them in his jacket pocket and slowly rises to face Peter, silhouetted in the broad beam of light streaming through the doorway.

Peter flicks on the lights and folds his arms across his chest, scowling at them in the white dazzle of the chandelier. He's dressed again- unusually rumpled, his hair a tangled mess and his face streaked with tears, but decent- and Alastair is suddenly conscious of his limp cock, flopping around idiotically outside his trousers. He quickly stuffs it back where it belongs and zips up, almost injuring himself in his haste. Tony's face twitches into a nervous grin.

"Hi!"

Peter looks them up and down with what is no doubt meant to be withering contempt, but between his damp cheeks and the weariness lining his face it comes off more as misery.

"Enjoyed the show, did you? I'm so glad."

"Oh, don't be like that, Peter," Tony says, opening his arms, perhaps unaware that his sticky cock is still hanging out of his trousers. Peter ducks away from the hug and stalks past them to the door at the far end of the room, slamming it behind him. Alastair knows Peter well enough to know there's only one place he could be going; there's no way he would go downstairs in his less than pristine state, and there's only one men's toilet on this floor. He shoves the remainder of the tissue packet at Tony and grabs his belt off the chair.

"I'll go after him."

It ought to be Tony, really. Alastair is a lousy comforter; Tony would do a much better job. He doesn't really know why he's volunteering to mop up Peter along with every other damn thing he has to do tonight, except he's not sure Tony _would_ go after him, and anyway there's something that turns his stomach about the idea of leaving the two of them alone together.

"Yeah, go check up on him." Tony smiles, kind and a little victorious. Alastair wonders what he thinks he's won. "You're such a good friend, Ali. Peter's lucky to have you."

Right, he's probably sitting in the toilet right now thinking how great it is to have friends who toss themselves off to his suffering. Not for the first time, Alastair has to suppress an urge to sock Tony in the mouth. But that's the whole problem with Tony. Alastair can't punch him, he can't even say anything, because Tony might genuinely think he's done him a favor by letting him watch this. Or maybe he just wants to make Alastair complicit in it, or maybe- and this is the scary possibility- maybe it's _both_ , and this is meant to be his reward for his loyalty and diligence, grace and favors for the inner circle and a demonstration of just how cold the wind blows in the ring just outside.

There's no way to know, with Tony, and there's no way to ask. He can't articulate how fucked up this whole thing was without making it sound like an accusation, and then Tony's feelings will be hurt and they'll have to spend the next week in another round of infantile psychodrama, and at the end of it he still won't have an answer to the question because Tony has an amazing talent for deflecting uncomfortable conversations. So the only thing Alastair can do is run after Tony and try to pick up all the pieces and defuse all the bombs. Sometimes he envies Mo Mowlam. At least Northern Ireland seems to be fucking _improving_. Number 10 gets more volatile with every passing day.

Maybe Peter is lucky to have him after all, considering his other friend is Tony. Alastair cinches his belt, feeling a bit like an explorer gearing up to plunge into the jungle on the trail of a man-eating tiger, and heads off to find Peter.

* * *

He's in the toilet, of course. Peter is conveniently predictable, once you get to know him. He's locked himself in a stall and he's crying again, although his sobs cut off abruptly when Alastair steps into the room. Peter goes completely silent, perhaps hoping that if he's quiet enough whoever has come into the toilet will fail to notice him and go away. Alastair raps on the door of the stall.

"Peter? It's just me."

"Oh for God's sake, what do you want now?" Peter snaps, a little tearfully, through the door. "I apologized, didn't I? You saw I did!"

Alastair winces. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

There is a pause. Alastair thinks he can detect a note of incredulity in it, even through the door.

At last Peter says, "Never better. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, you were crying, for one thing. Not that that's particularly unusual for you, but still," Alastair says, trying to keep his tone light and teasing. He's not sure this is the right way to play this- Fiona and Tony always get irate if they feel he isn't taking their current crisis seriously enough- but every time he has a row with Peter, Peter tries to pretend everything is normal between them and they're the best of friends again the second they stop screaming at each other. He switches over so fast Alastair gets emotional whiplash sometimes. So maybe he'll be more comfortable if they keep things all repressed and British and nobody talks about feelings? Fuck, Alastair's totally at sea. He should have let Tony do this.

"Fuck off," Peter snaps.

So much for that. Maybe they'd better do feelings after all.

"I was worried about you. Tony too, he wanted me to check up on you. Look, it's ridiculous talking through a door like this. Come out so we can talk properly?"

"I should have thought you'd seen enough of me for one day."

Alastair winces again. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. I didn't exactly sign off on this evening's activities either, you know."

"You certainly seemed to enjoy yourself well enough once they got started," Peter says bitterly.

"Did I get off? Yeah, I'm a bloke, and Tony's hand was on my cock. What do you want me to do? That doesn't mean I liked seeing Gordon hurt you " It's not technically a lie; he never said he _didn't_ like it. "You came yourself, as I recall, so don't get so high and mighty about it. It's not like I've never seen you naked before."

"I've seen _you_ naked before; it doesn't make it okay for me to sneak into your bedroom!"

Alastair sighs and reminds himself Peter has had a traumatic evening and he needs to be patient with him. One of the six hundred frustrating things about Peter is the way he gets snappish when he's hurt or anxious. He's so pitiful when he's unhappy that you just want to cuddle him, but he's like a wild animal with a broken limb; if you try to get near him he'll lunge for your throat. Patience has never been one of Alastair's virtues, so he's usually dealt with the problem by letting Tony or Fiona manage Peter until he's calmed down. Still, he's handled enough of Rory's tantrums that he ought to be able to cope with this.

"I didn't come in here to have an argument with you. I just want to see that you're all right. Will you please come out? I've got things to do, you know; I don't want to spend all night lurking outside a toilet stall."

"Why don't you fuck off, then? I didn't ask you to come running after me. I never asked you to feel sorry for me; I didn't say _anything_. You don't really want to comfort me anyway, you just feel guilty for using me as wank fodder and you want me to absolve you. Fine, it's all my fault. It must be, mustn't it, because you and Tony don't treat anyone else this way. I deserve it; I told Gordon off in a public meeting. It's okay for him to treat us all like dirt, but if I complain about it, that's out of order. Well, it's all settled now. Gordon has his apology and everyone got off, so I've clearly fulfilled my purpose in this organization. Now why don't you run off home to your _partner_?"

"Peter, stop it."

"Or your kids. When did you last see them? I guess it was more important to watch Gordon fuck me than to tuck them in."

"It's a quarter to twelve; they've been in bed for hours." He's letting himself be diverted. Alastair shakes his head and raps on the door again. "You're not going to drive me away by being obnoxious, so you might as well knock it off. Come out, Peter. I'm not leaving until I see you're all right, so you can either skulk in there until morning or come on out and have a civilized conversation. The only thing you'll accomplish by making me wait is pissing me off, and then I might dragoon you into helping me fix this fucking Blunkett interview. You wouldn't want _that_ , would you?"

"Fuck off!" Peter says for a third time, and sniffs contemptuously at him, but after a few moments the latch clicks, and he emerges from the stall. He's brushed his hair back into place, but his face is pale and drawn, the corners of his mouth pulled tight in a way that suggests he's fighting back another bout of tears. Peter has never been someone who looks attractive when he cries- much to his annoyance, Alastair suspects- and his eyes are swollen and rimmed with red.

"You see? I'm fine. You can leave now."

For someone who's fine, he's having an awfully hard time meeting Alastair's eyes.

"What happened back there?" Alastair asks.

Peter gives him an unpleasant smile. "I should have thought you had a pretty good view."

"No, I meant- What did Tony- what were you..." He trails off uncomfortably, unsure of how to frame the question, or even of what precisely he wants to ask.

"Like I said. Everyone got what they wanted. Gordon wanted to hurt me, and he did. Tony wanted to maneuver everyone into place like pieces on a chessboard, and he got to see his game play out. You wanted reassurance that I can swallow my pride and take Gordon's shit if Tony orders it, and you have it. Everyone goes home happy."

Alastair winces, because Peter's not wrong; he _did_ want that reassurance. Just not in the form of Peter bent over the back of a sofa and sobbing in pain while Gordon rams his cock up his arse.

"I notice your name is conspicuously absent from that list," he says, to cover his discomfort.

Peter laughs, and they both pretend not to hear the note of hysteria in it. "Oh, I get the marvelous privilege of working with you wonderful people and knowing that I can, in some small way, aid the Project."

"Yeah, but you didn't have to go along with this to have that!"

Peter finally looks at him. His eyes are absolutely dead; there's nothing there, not even tears. Blunkett's have more life in them. "Didn't I?"

"Don't be stupid! Tony's not going to sack you for refusing to supply sexual favors on demand. Just man up and tell him no next time.”

"Yes, I should really stand up for myself more. What a good idea. The last four times I tried it you told me I was worthless and punched me, Tony said that if it came down to a choice between us he'd keep Gordon and sack me, Gordon decided I was Judas, and Neil stopped speaking to me," Peter reminds him, ticking them off on his fingers. "But I'm sure this time will be different."

"I said I was sorry for that!" Peter is as bad as Fiona sometimes, dredging up every damn thing you've done wrong in the past ten years every time you have a row. "But that's got nothing to do with this. That was just us arguing. This was... I'm really not comfortable with what happened, Peter."

Peter snorts contemptuously. "Well, if _you're_ uncomfortable."

"Don't be a prick. Gordon hurt you, and I'm upset because I'm your _friend_."

"Not upset enough not to treat it like your own private porn show, I couldn't help but notice."

"You know, people think they can get away with this stuff because you're such a little bitch all the time. Maybe if you tried to have a constructive discussion about this, or God forbid, a real _job_..."

Peter looks up again, that same dead look in his eyes. "I've been pleading for a proper job for four years. I've done it in front of you, in front of Gordon... You always forget, and then you blame me for having such a nebulous brief. I don't know Tony does it."

He shakes his head. "He's never going to give it to me. I thought things would get better once we were in government, but it's only got worse. He wouldn't even have given me the Dome if anyone else was willing to take the wretched thing. It's a nightmare of an assignment and I had to get down on my knees and beg him for it, just so I don't have to go back to my constituents three years on and tell them I've accomplished nothing for this entire Parliament.

"You're right, you lot couldn't get away with this if I had a proper job. But Tony likes me like this, trapped in the shadows, dependent on his patronage, entirely at his mercy. And who are we to defy the will of our great leader?" He laughs again and hugs his arms across his chest. "I'm sorry if my situation annoys you. You can fuck me, if you like. That seemed to make Gordon feel better."

"Peter, stop it!" Alastair wants to shake him, but he has enough perspective to realize it's not really Peter he's angry at. Peter seems to realize this too, because when he speaks again the vindictive edge has left his voice and he looks at Alastair with something like pity.

"It's all right, Ali. We want to help Tony, don't we? He's our dearest friend and the first Labour Prime Minister for a generation. We want to do everything we can to help him. If this is what he needs from me then of course I'm happy to oblige."

Aside from the fact that this is patently untrue, because Peter complains about his role constantly- and Peter's right, how the fuck did Alastair manage to forget that when Peter does it in front of him in every fucking meeting?- Alastair wonders whether letting Tony have everything he wants is such a good idea. He also wonders when he suddenly became 'Ali' to everyone, a nickname normally reserved for people who knew him when he was five and for Tony, who won't stop using it despite repeated entreaties. In the midst of his puzzlement he remembers the question he's wanted to ask all night.

"You knew we were right there. Why didn't you say something? If you wanted Gordon to stop, why the hell didn't you ask us for help?"

Peter's expression is unreadable. They've been friends for more than fifteen years, fought side by side in a campaign that revolutionized the Labour Party and changed the face of British politics, shagged each other into sweaty insensibility, fallen asleep on long bus journeys and drooled on each other's shoulders, had flaming rows that ended in fisticuffs or tears, laughed at each other's jokes until they could scarcely breathe, counted on each other's help and support in times of trouble. Alastair would bet there is no one on Earth who knows Peter as well as he does. But the lines of Peter's face are entirely opaque to him now; the shuttered eyes reveal nothing.

"Would you have saved me?" he asks quietly. "If I'd asked, would you have come charging to my rescue?"

"Of course!" Alastair insists, but he can't quite meet Peter's eyes.

Peter gives him a thin, bleak smile. "I like to think so too."

It's a horrible smile. Alastair can't find anything to say to it, even though he knows Peter has ducked out of his question by replying with another, easier question. It's elementary spin, but he can't fight it, not in the face of Peter's smile. Instead he stands there numbly while Peter pats him on the shoulder and brushes past him out the door, off to do whatever unspeakable Peterish thing the Prince of Darkness does in the wee hours- sitting in an armchair with Philip's latest focus group results and a cup of tea, most likely. Alastair returns to his press release and tries to untwist the noose that Paxman has wound so deftly around the Education Secretary's neck.

* * *

It's not until he is home at long last- just before 2:00 AM, and he has to be up again in four hours- and he's writing his diary entry in the bath that he realizes that perhaps Peter answered his question after all.


End file.
